Providence
by Maverick87
Summary: Maybe signifying nothing was God all along.
1. Tails

**Prologue:**

Wake up for a second.

My name's not important all right, but what is, is the contemplation for death, and how one goes on dusk to leaves, condoms to mirrors, playing cards to refrigerator magnets; it all doesn't make a clear picture, but the wondrous world hops through its hoops and dreams anyway, and one hero of the mobius strip pulls off the most selfless act he could ever simmer, ever hold, and you think it was easy or selfish, don't we all, yet all the strength burns the moon right out of the night, all the weakness cleans the empty roadsides and market stalls, and we merely wait on just like the skyscrapers, the apple orchards, the streamlined jets setting their trails along the sky, the human beings who update their phones, all hoping for that one distraction that just might change the mind for the better or for the worst, either way, at least there was some sort of change we could tell somebody about, a psychiatrist, a friend, an enemy, someone who mattered to you, some form of recognition and coddling,

and when that one person's gone, the love you saved and saved with all the tears aside, dies

you go on living unlearned, meddling with things you never cared about, things you couldn't control, things you could, watching the outcomes with an indifference unexplained to anyone happy or depressed but the idea our wills and ways could make something happen for a reason because we wanted it to,

that's the great idea, you could kill yourself to conquer my absurdity.

* * *

TAILS

* * *

Don't ask and I'll tell.

* * *

The funeral begins with a prayer and a magic trick. The priest speaks words.

"The idea is that Sonic's has returned to heaven. He has become one with the world once more. Even though he left this world voluntarily…does not mean he sinned wrong, for he was a great hero..."

I stop listening for I'm afraid I might find them comforting. That's a righteous statement. An agnostic one.

Sonic turned his car on with the garage off. The carbon monoxide infiltrated him. Made him slow down. It probably was a brilliant experience. His organs failing like he did in school. Sonic didn't have the effort to go to class, but had the class to save the world.

I want to say that's the kind of person you want for a savior. A pseudo-intellectual.

The roses are placed on his casket. Paul bear him. Knuckles could've lifted the box himself. However it was me, Knux, Rotor, Charmy, Mighty, and Ray. It felt easy because Sonic was a thin jerk. I probably could've military pressed him straight to his grave.

Wrong thought, right process. How it spins, is how it goes.

* * *

The track is made of dirt and loss. I would describe any horse track like that. You're dirt either way. For being the lucky bastard or not. Sounds awful. It is. Spin a silver dollar on the ground. You'll see how much it's worth that way.

Sonic and Power Man. Power Man is a story better than any Armageddon you wish or want.

Mobian horses are funny. They have all the human thoughts you want, but the masochism is still there. They'll whip themselves until that finish line. They're strong freaks who bounce for clubs in the off season, run marathons, eat twenty thousand calories for breakfast. Killing themselves on the track.

The trainers are worse. Take a smartass who doesn't know what he's doing. Put him on a team with good players, athletic freaks; he'll do better than anyone. What's that supposed to say? Oh I know. You were lucky damn it.

No matter, because the horses are so majestic. Grace and thunder. I'd whip myself for that kind of love. At the end the first place winner, or the "place" gets a ride around in the winner's circle.

I forgot to mention overlanders whip those horses' asses. Crack. Snap. You win or die.

I forgot to mention that too. If you lose in the big races, you're screwed. You might as well break your own legs. Call it the ultimate game. You ever want something so bad you'd die for it? Sure. But most of us are lying to ourselves. We only pretend to. You wouldn't die for anything if you were proper.

Survival is the only goal we reach for and that's a little too true for comfort.

* * *

I feel lost.

It's been said before, stated better too. Druggy should be the word. The state of either wanting drugs or being on too many of them.

Get me a Xanax, mix it with the tea, a brewing cup with the steam softly rising to the ceiling of my apartment that needs to get the cobwebs out in the corners. Listen. It sounds limitless that stirring of the spoon. The clink it makes when it hits the cup. Nostalgia and porcelain.

Sonic is on the news. All over the place still. WARNING GRAPHIC IMAGES the disclaimer barks and crackles.

The Mobius Media Group has let go of censorship. They'll show you terrorists or freedom fighters.

I saw a blindfolded echidna get his head chopped off with a broad sword. Literally broad. The kind from the video games I played at fourteen. The camera zooms in. You get this bird's eye view of the guy's insides. It's like looking down a well into a man's blood, bones, and muscles.

Then it flips back to the anchor. The anchor has that look of barometric disappointment, it almost licks the camera. The worst job in the world. Holding in every feeling you ever had just to stay professional. Imagine if your mother was being executed, and you watch her body slump over like a sleeping yoga instructor, but you can't say a damn thing except; my condolences, my condolences to the victims.

A condolence is the blueblood way to say you're sorry that you're not them. Yeah that hurts. Worse when you notice it.

Another guy falls to his death from just enough height to break his hips and back and legs. A white ledge with some sort of architecture not seen around here. It's strange because he hits and dies. Just pop back up and say we're all practically joked. This isn't real because it's taped.

I'm not there.

I'm just not there. No tears for that.

Yet if you give me a television show it'll make me seamless to my emotions. The right switches are being pulled. Watching, concentrating, distracting, your brain forgets the filter.

Empathy shown through floating images of light and sound. Actors are the only people I find real anymore. Maybe because it's all we are. Every conversation is a different version of a chemical reaction. Birthday parties for surprise and boredom, happiness and lust to say you wanted that gift that you appreciate what people do for you.

But you just can't. You don't. You try to really tell someone. I look right into the other person's eyes and pretend that I love them.

* * *

"Tails you all right man?"

Knux, aka, Knuckles the lonely echidna, talks. His voice is a stoner smelling beach.

"Yeah. Why?"

"You haven't eaten anything off your plate man. We're all at the bonfire. You've just been standing there looking at that stupid ass grandfather clock Sonic owned. Get out of this house for a bit and come join us!"

I'll do that when I'm done dying. I want that kind of confidence to say something like that to the bastard. I want to be that honest with people.

"Sure sure sure Knux. I'll be out there in a second."

Knux did catch me staring at this old, human thing.

It's called a grandfather clock, but I've never looked the definition up. I've never met my own grandfather. The interesting feature is the moving mural thing it has. Obviously time goes by during the day, and you get a ship sailing across the sea. It starts with the sun and ends with the ship stopping for the night. As it rests the moon gets this real yellow grin. It's supposed to be happy, this mother moon, but I kept thinking it was a nightmare for someone else. Sonic bought it at an auction. Cost him about three hundred dollars or mobiums. The exchange difference is only a penny and no one cares enough to give the change back for the dollar.

The smell of brisket is ruminating through the room. Odors in Sonic's mansion. My ears pick up laughter. Jokes or stories about Sonic. Barbeque your loved ones. You're cremating them with your memories and jokes and fucking brisket. I wish I could tell someone why I think barbeque isn't that great of a thing to eat. Woo dere' putting sauce on strung out heroin meat, meth addicted cows. I've never met a cow. I don't want to. I probably won't unless she's dairy, or he's the slutty bull. Otherwise they'll just be executed for consumption. Hardy ha ha. My plate is corn, pork and beans, cow meat, and a roll more stale than Sonic's body. Hardy har har.

But Knuckles and Amy and Rotor and Mighty, the mightiest of the armadillos, cry like babies, then grin and eat that barbeque. Slurping down the meat of a hero's welcome. Sonic won stuff at auctions and soon here we're auctioning his material existence to the monetary winners.

Even when you die, you're still money. You're still a product for someone else.

* * *

The will of someone in the will and last testament of someone. Hehe. A metaphor or allegory. I forgot a lot of my English vocabulary words.

Everyone's going to hate me though.

He only invited me to the reading of this will. No one else. Sonic wanted his best friend as the only recipient of this.

I shake the hand of the lawyer. He's a fox too. Much taller though and amber eyes with the grayer vulpine fur.

"Mr. Prower thank you for coming today. Sonic, heh, apparently wanted you to reap most of his benefits."

"Reap's a funny word considering his death."

The fox's eyes stop for a second, not that fearful look but the reactive one that's supposed to size me up and down.

"I'm sorry if I offended you Mr. Pr-"

"Tails. Just call me Tails. And you didn't offend me. It takes a lot."

The lawyer smirks through his suit. I said something wrong or right.

"Well...Tails, for starters, Sonic wanted you to take Christmas Island off his hands."

"Everything on it?"

"Yes."

"You do know I have no experience in running any sort of business or accounting, or logistics I-"

"Tails..."

"Go ahead."

"Sonic practically fired almost every person and deconstructed every business on the island. It's a complete ghost town. Nothing but his mansion and a couple of his servants he liked the best. Don't you remember when he did that? It was all over the news."

Servants and royalty and hailing King Sonic. I never understood why none of us ever hung around Knothole minus the Queen Mother, Sally Acorn. She was stupid. I wonder if she even knows about him.

"It's been a long time since I've been there. Hell it's been a long time since I've watched the news. I guess I expected everything to be the same. Even so why would he do something like that?"

"He wants you to be happy is what he told me. He left you all his money. I mean all of it. The stocks and bonds, his three bank accounts, and Christmas Island. Of course if I knew he had planned to-"

"Don't say it…"

The silence deprecates the notion with a rushing A/C cur, my mind cogitates.

"Shit what's your name again?" I ask.

"Vernon Danforth."

"Attorney at law?"

"Haha. Yes. That too."

"Well thank you Mister Danforth. Maybe I'll see you around. If I do I'll give you some money."

I turn toward those slick mahogany doors. There's a step and a breath.

"Well not so fast Tails. You got to sign these papers too."

"Papers too?"

"Deeds. Legal forms giving you the assets."

I walk over and sign the forms. An illegible scratch and I'm a millionaire. Mobiums or dollars. They count the same.

"Is that all?"

"Yes."

"The rest of his material possessions will be auctioned right?"

"Yes. He said he knew you wouldn't care, or that, you weren't one for material things."

"But he just gave me an island."

"He said it'd be a good joke to give you something."

"I suppose I can high roll myself to fame now or something. Get people's attention."

"Or you could disappear."

The way he says it. As if Vernon Danforth attorney at law, knows what I'm getting at. He probably does. I found out later that he's a defense lawyer trying to help all the idiots of the universe when they get busted. Tough job, but those aren't the right words. More like he's a playwright for the justice system. Again, not the right words.

"Am I good to go then?" I strain, not wanting him to know I can't really answer the question.

"Yes sir, you're good to go."

"Nothing else?"

"Actually yes. There is one small thing I forgot about."

"What?"

"The grandfather clock Sonic had. He said it was the only thing he had you ever liked."

I stun myself. My feet shake. Goosebumps spread from my spinal column and course through the rest of my body. Fear or something, embarrassment?

"That's great. That's really good." I smirk almost too perfectly. "But I have to be somewhere Vernon."

"Oh, ok. Do you have an address for the clock?"

"Send it to the mansion on Christmas Island. I'll be somewhere around there soon."

"Of course."

The silence deprecates any other emotions either one of us attempted at having, or so I think.

"I'll see you later I guess."

"Take it easy Tails."

"Will do."

The mahogany doors rush and hit me. The wind blows a northern spell. Cold and righteous. I take a taxi and hit my studio apartment off Wiggins. The cost is about two seventy five mobiums or two seventy six dollars. Just far enough not to walk or fly.

* * *

My toilet screams for mercy. The entire process heaving. My one room apartment with the granite counter tops, white carpets, a television. Sonic's dead in a brilliant casket. He gave me everything including that gazer clock. Spinning, porcelain, water and regurgitation of chow mein and frozen pizzas.

Where's my life?

That's my life going through the pipes. Never stopping until it hits the coast or the waste water plant.

That's my life. A burn in my testicles. Have you ever thrown up that hard? Where your balls feel it?

Vomiting is a orgasm in disguise. Pain shallower in rejoicing. Just pretend you hate it, but it clears your head, stops time for that moment.

I never saw it happen. I kiss other people with their words. Their versions. Only when their words come to me. Word to mouth, mouth to toilet, toilet to sea, sea to fish, fish to mouth, circle of life.

* * *

Christmas Island is where Sonic "Maurice" the hedgehog was born and where he died. He died early. Had parents that died early too. I've never met my parents either. They were part of my birth and the people who mutated me into the world.

Two tails one life and I thought about that tattoo. Like some sort of prisoner to society. A documentary on "Tails" Miles Prower the fox. I got this second tail because of poetic nonsense!

Wrong. I got the two tails because I was lucky and unlucky. The binaries come together. Weakness and strength. A perfect face, but a yellow smile. God's that horrible. No seriously, mister man, Senor God, Signor God, Almighty, you're a gambler, dealer, roulette player.

The ball rolls on your number but there are thousands and thousands of wheels spinning. Each one representing every moment of your life.

God becomes a casino with unlimited coin.

God becomes a tomb.

* * *

I guess it's time I told you about Power Man.

His real name is Raury Jacobs. Horses give themselves nicknames before they hit the track. He called himself "Power Man" because he said he had the will of humans but the strength of animals. Which is a good call fellow Mobian.

The problem is Mobian and human scientists, sociologists, and psychologists have tried to crack the Mobian miracle. We're all sort of like missing links. Animals with human like features. We're technically called anthropomorphs, animals with human capabilities. Which is a great excuse for killing anyone right? I'm a damn animal so I killed him, it's natural for me, he pissed me off. However see, it doesn't work that way. Ask Nack the weasel. He tried to cover his hitman duties with what his defense called "animalistic insanity", or some sort of revert, but now he's doing a half dollar in prison. You notice how people do that with prison terms? Play them off like they're money? It makes me think everything is monetary, not special. But who cares right? I'm supposed to be an animal, I can't care about money.

Any who, that is Power Man's game. Bringing together humans and Mobians together to watch him race around a dirt oval. That said, he's the epitome of transition. He had tests done on him for how good he was. Muscles bulging everywhere, speed too, Sonic even had said he was impressed. Of course if Sonic had gone into foot races it wouldn't have been fair. But Raury has the drive most Mobians lost when they became part human; the intensity, the imperviousness to pain, the inability to stop.

* * *

Getting out of a shower always leaves steam in the mirror. You can't see anything and then you've got to use a hand towel to wipe it away for the two seconds it takes to style my fur. The chocolate fur I developed. I got darker and thinner. Hell my face fur looks like a dragged mustache when I swim. I used to be such a cute guy but puberty strays the path. My hair's growing outward and onward, like a fake rock star. I used to gel my fur up in three spikes between the ears. Everyone used to love my golden locks. Said I was the golden boy inventor but I gave up science years ago. But now I still get blackheads that look like extra whisker holes, and I think some gray is coming in behind my ears. Part of me loves the age because I don't have to flash my ID, but I hate the beauty that's all replaced with decency. And decency is just about perfect. Enough to get noticed, but not enough to get loved.

The cell phone with unlimited minutes because I don't get a lot of calls, rings a pop song. So I pick it up knowing it'll be Sonic the Hedgehog.

"Hello?"

"Tails! What's up buddy?"

"Nothing much."

"What are you doing?"

"I was taking a shower."

"You're always in the shower."

"Yeah."

"Hey look, I'm going down to the tracks again. Wanna hang with me?"

My body tenses up because I know I'm going to have to make the decision to either spend time with Sonic or not. Part of me wants to, part of me doesn't. I like Sonic, I hate the races, the loud noises, the loud fuckers who care way too much about a ticket that'll give nothing more than a fast food meal or a long distance phone call. At least Sonic's quiet when he goes. It's probably the prestige of being him, but hey, at least he's cool about it.

"I-I can't Sonic, I'm just not feeling up to it."

There's a bit of silence. It wasn't what the hedgehog wanted.

"That's fine man, we'll hang out soon."

"Okay. Talk to you later."

"Bye."

I press the end button and wonder why that button doesn't just end everything else. Maybe I'm getting depressed. I feel like sleeping all the time, but I'm always so easily pleased by the things I like and those commercials say I'm supposed to not like the things I like when I'm depressed.

So I must not be depressed. But what is it? Repression?

I don't want to think about it, but you know what? I think about it almost all the time.

* * *

Those were the last words. See you later. Talk to you later. Later is just an excuse and a weak farewell. And when you botch a farewell you might as well have never known the goddamn person. You're never good enough for anyone anyway. All you can do is sit and watch them die, even when they're alone. Goodbye my friend, I never had the chance to tell you how much I love the sound of a guitar, or the feel of a black sand beach, even though I can't play the guitar and I've only seen the beach in pictures. Never had to chance to show you those poems I wrote or the painting I did, I was stupid enough to be scared of your opinion because I respected it so fucking much. As if you had the power to change my life and maybe you should have. Stars never fade away. They just burn out or collapse on themselves. Then all that's left is pictures and broken constellations, broken pictures that don't mean anything except to the person who remembers the original image. And maybe all I am is a fox inside a hedgehog, a simulacrum for heroes and fools and good people, the people who believed in you as much as I did.

I want Sonic to know these things, but my prayers go unanswered because I'm the only person who can answer me now.

That's the worst thing. I'm intelligent enough to realize all my problems and won't fix them anyway. Call it cheap entertainment like every comedy movie ever made.

* * *

Later in the day I get another phone call. It's Amy, Sonic's up again, down again girlfriend. I say that because she only wants Sonic for the fame. I tell him that and he shrugs me off, but he knows better because he only calls her up to do it from time to time. It's ironic really, she thinks she's getting closer to husbandry and he thinks she'll get the hint. It's not going to happen soon. The cellphone's on vibrate and hitting about ring number five. I'm wondering if I should answer it.

The gray loveseat I bought is too comfortable for a reply to something stupid, like where's Sonic? Where's he at? I need him!

The phone buzzes again to indicate a voicemail. Here we go.

I pick the phone up. The sun shining in from the balcony gleams its silver plating to make it look a diamond. A guy can dream for a phone of diamonds.

It's probably going to be her telling me to call her back. Which defeats the point of a voicemail. If I missed your call, then I know I missed it and I'll return the call when I get the time. Why do people do that? It's counterproductive for both parties. Tell me what you wanted. Give me the reason. Text messages are worse. They go a step further and say one word messages that take longer then it took to type and send them. My hand puts the phone back on the coffee table. And I decide to turn the television on. Apparently the last time I turned it on, I was watching the twenty four hour news channel. You know the kind. With all the pointless stories to fill up a whole day, and even then most of its recasts of the same stuff. The ticker at the bottom blows up like a grenade. I feel indifferent as if the explosion killed everyone else I didn't get the chance to know.

SONIC THE HEDGEHOG DIES

Capitalization is supposed to mark proper nouns and show importance for the words. All caps on that super CG. Today's July eighth, it's around 5:10pm.

I think know what the voicemail was about. And maybe that would've been an easier blow. But that's like picking a boxer's jab, cross, uppercut, or hook. Who am I kidding though? As if choosing would change the feelings I have or rearrange them.

* * *

The garage is a clean silver floor and a workshop for tools, some cabinets and a pull down trapdoor to enter the attic. Sonic's car is a sports car with the paint matching his quills. That dark cerulean blue that's created, I swear it's an artificial color because Sonic's the only person who ever had it. The car's a two door bucket back seater, a girl getter, a jackass on every road. I'd like to drive it, but there's a hedgehog in the driver's seat.

Sonic's a pale and a sloppy character actor of himself, his mouth's open, his bowels are open, he's an old man now, an older dead man and I don't recognize my friend for he was or for who he has become. Sonic now is a morgue number, a vote for a cheating politician, and should I hold him at that face value? God damn his face is all contorted, all ruined, that pretty face, a closed casket.

The tears start and I'm a pussy now for all the males of the world. I'm a male who cries. I'm an exceptional male. I love fruity drinks. The little umbrellas in the hurricanes make me grin. I even go as far to eat ice cream on Saturday night all alone watching the movies I can't get anyone else to watch with me. I'm the whiskey with the cola because I can't take the stuff straight. I can't take anything straight.

"Tails!" a sharp pitched yell with peach smelling perfume. Amy comes up from behind and gives me the hug, the rub on my stomach, the tears literally wetting my shoulder.

Are you listening Sonic? I want you to see me all distraught and upset.

"Tails I'm sorry." she says.

I don't say anything. I've learned my language well enough to know our little words don't work in situations like this. The word "so" is probably the worst. It's weak. For instance, I was at a bar when I was a little younger and I tried to tell the bartender I was Tails Prower to get a free drink, and all I got was "so?". I was so upset, so angry, so worthless, so drunk, so hungry, so applicable to using the word "so". So what? I'm so sorry.

"So" will not supplement my pains and humiliations.

"Tails are you okay? You look so upset."

And I start running shoving cops and forensic specialists, crime scene investigators, and I fly towards my apartment higher and higher above, stratosphere aiming, thinking, I need to pay the rent and work out again I'm getting flabby and Sonic's dead. I need to go to the grocery store and get groceries for the week and Sonic's dead. My left ear hurts- Maybe it's a sinus infection-Sonic's dead. Maybe he faked his death, no no no no no Sonic's dead. What am I going to do without him? Why couldn't someone close his eyes? Let him sleep. Why is he dead? He killed himself with all that carbon monoxide and he probably just fell asleep at the wheel he wouldn't kill himself, he had everything, he was happy, a happy hedgehog who saved the world who saved me who saved me.

My tears come faster and I'm giving someone down there a bit of my rain, I'm a storm, I'm a mess.

A cloud appears and normally I fly around them but this time I just want to go through it.

Like watered smoke the cloud damps my fur just like my eyes and now I'll just look like I have a cold or the flu, but I'm not sick yet.

* * *

Merry Christmas is what Christmas Island always feels like, even with all the palms. Wouldn't have been surprised if Sonic would've installed snow machines to put winter in the tropics. Sonic loved having four seasons instead of the one and a half we get around here. There's a servant waiting and the poor guy probably doesn't get paid enough, or he does...I just got here. The rabbit comes rushing up to me with a tray and a wine glass. Wearing a salmon colored golf shirt and black slacks he looks ready to play golf, take telephone calls or sell real estate.

"Mister Prower welcome to Christmas Island! Would you uh, like a drink sir?"

He offers the wine glass full of Riesling. The alcoholic in me can smell it. I take the chalice and drink a fruity sip. It hits my stomach with a calm. Great start by the way.

"Thanks. What's your name again?"

"My name's Darren."

"Oh. Well you're doing a great job."

"Thank you Mister Prower."

"Call me Tails."

"Of course Mister Tails."

"Just Tails."

"Yes Tails."

"Perfect. Now find the bottle of that stuff and bring it here."

"Gotcha Tails."

The rabbit scurries off past the docks towards the mansion white, blue, and red bricked. There's at least more windows than the total number of cabinets in my old apartment. Sonic always was a little bastard in the regard of heroes begetting regal dreams. I feel the need to learn the violin just to even step in this place. Where's that whaling, wailing song? I always think of whales when the violins start. Again, I've never met Mobian whales though so my opinion isn't too reputable like all my other opinions.

Next thing you know there's these doors wider than jeeps or elephant assholes. Excuse the analogy the wine's tingling me. And this house is tingling me too. The rabbit opens them with one hand and the wine bottle in the other. There's a running smell of cleaner laced carpets and bleached laundry. The floors look new and untouched. Sonic must have issued a cleaning service or never lived here, but then again he had other homes.

"Did Sonic ever live here Darren?"

"Yeah. He was on the up and out most of the time though."

"What are still you doing here then?"

"He let me live here. I've never made much of a fuss. I'm sort of a quiet guy."

I look at him and he's got the snaky look, the please let me stick around I'll do sexual favors for you worried look.

"Where's your room anyway?"

"The east wing."

"There's wings here?" I ask. "Holy shit."

"All four cardinal directions."

"Are there breakfast nooks?"

"Just one." he laughs and sort of looks away. "And it's called the kitchen."

"Ha ha."

I start looking at this chandelier right above us in the shape of Sonic's face. With the video game, movie look he always had. Part of me think it's going to fall right now and kill us. Darren and I dead for eternity and no one's ever going to come to Christmas island again, so we'd rot right through these dolphin colored tiles.

"Would you like to see your room Tails?"

"Yeah. Lead the way."

And the rabbit starts hopping up the staircase which looks more and more like Sonic's nose. And I start to wonder if Sonic loved himself more than any of us. We were the fools and he was the hero, and I shouldn't have those thoughts because he just died, but he took the trip himself and god damn is that enough of a right reason for all of us? I mean, the standards aren't really standards and the eccentric types aren't rebels so where can I draw the line? I can't draw very good, I've always held my pencil wrong. My handwriting is not just the scratch of a chicken. Hell I never asked if a chicken can write very well, they're all probably much better than me. My legibility is more like a monkey throwing fecal matter onto a piece of paper.

I get into trouble sometimes with my animal colloquialisms.

* * *

I've only covered half the mansion. West and south wings. The south is where the gymnasium is. Work out equipment for bulging all those muscles I don't even know I have. Also the pool and hot tub are out there past the gym. So I can swim laps or relax. Oh and there's an arcade too. Sonic bought arcade versions of all the games he was in, we were in, hell even the solo shit I did has a place. In case I want to look at my eight year old self run around and jump on things.

It's almost immortalizing, but we're all demigods and goddesses, so it's okay to have some fame. The right kind though. I'm not talking about reality television fame, I'm talking about how you wrote ten novels and only select people know you, how you wrote poetry that no one reads but it got published anyway. The simmering type. Fame should be a steam and not a fire. Hehe I like that but you know what I've never written a page in my life worth anything more than a fridge magnet.

The west wing is the master bath and bedroom. That's it. The hedgehog put in a three thousand square foot room just so he can sleep and watch television through the seventy five inch fourth stage of matter. Oh and the bathroom has got the walk in shower and the his and hers sinks made from crystals and moon rocks. Sonic could've had anyone impressed.

I sleep on the recliner across from the television. I can't sleep where Sonic sleeps and that includes his grave. I might stop by there soon, but if I get drunk and pass out on the headstone like all those movies do I'll scream upon waking. Not for the disrespect but for the principle; he can't fight back. Yet the chair's got a massager and a foot rest so my back and body don't mind at all. But I couldn't sleep anyway. I kept waiting for ghosts and chains and Sonic coming back to tell me how I should change my life for the better since he died. But if he did that right now how would I be able to take his opinion? Oh okay Sonic let me just stop everything and be a good boy for you. Bullshit. What is he supposed to say?

He is never coming back so it doesn't matter, but if he did my fist just might go through his face that or might try to hug him and fall to the floor.

The thing is any situation can be reexamined and the process won't leave you any more prepared for when it happens. It's hard to imagine. The imagination is just for dreaming and most dreams are just forgotten. And I just wake up with a couple of images without meaning and it's never enough to make anything worthwhile.

The writer in me hates myself, the lover in me loves myself.

* * *

Darren lies in the hot tub with his ears drooping wet. Expensive scotch is tinkling and swirling from the glass in his hand and I wonder like I do when anyone else has a drink, where mine is, I need a drink too.

"Hey Darren where the hell is my drink?"

"Holdonletme gget it for you Mister Tails."

"You're drunker than I am."

"Ithappens. Alot of the time."

"Am I paying you for this?"

"Off theclock, butI'll givve it back if youwant," he giggles.

The rabbit still sits with the jets. He sips the scotch, shudders, and his eyes gleam.

"Go get me a drink man."

"Yeeah. Shitsorry. Going now sir."

As he stands up, the water all waterfalls off his body with an attacking sound, a pail of liquid. Blue board shorts with pink bananas on them too. He takes the towel and dries himself off violently.

"Oh man." he says low beneath his breath.

"What?"

Darren looks up earnest and shakes his head. "Nothing. Whatayawant to drink?"

"Screwdriver."

"Strong orweak?"

"A strong one because I am weak."

"Oh that'shorrible."

"Yeah."

The rabbit stumbles off and I'm pretty sure I'll hear some sort of crash. Darren's more lit than I've ever seen him. The thing is, is he drinks on the job all the time. I don't really care about it. It's not like he has a job performance review or something. He gets me things when I need it and he can definitely do that drunk.

My ass slips into the hot tub and part of me wishes I could die in one. An endless bath warm and safe and people won't find your body in a garage off a house you bought as a joke. You won't die inside of a joke unless the joke is life and then you're screwed because you can't escape it or find the punchline. Hell what if everybody's laughing? Like Sonic's funeral barbecue. Sonic did you want to die with laughter or with hate? His life was either a funny joke that got old, or a bad joke being continually used until you're booed off stage. It's all sounds the same and I think every life metaphor just wants another life metaphor to have. To be able to have the poeticism you wanted. Because if you try to merely edit a metaphor it becomes a bad one right? Life is not a sandwich, or a pickle jar. Life's supposed to be a journey or a song or a climb or a mountain. Life is not a pack of birth control pills. Maybe it is.

"Drink drink drink sir."

Darren sets the screwdriver beside my arm and jumps back into the Jacuzzi. The hot water splashes me in the eyes.

"Careful Darren. We want to keep the water in the hot tub you know?"

"Yeahyeah, sorry," he says scotch sipping again.

"We're you always this casual with Sonic?" I say taking the sip and shivering because there's enough vodka in this to end the night.

"Nah, Ialways was real careful withhim, he had atemper when he came aroundwas alwayspissed, like heneeded to comehere to gget away or something."

"I'm pretty sure I would've never left this place. If I had been Sonic I would have never been seen again."

"Yeah hesaid that tome. 'Darrenyouknow Ishould just nevergo back!'"

"Then why did he?"

"Told meitwas a dutyand appearancesand stuff. Sonic knewhow he hadtobe. He saved the worldman and asmuchas Ihate the world hewas the only Mobian anyone ever cared about."

"Yeah he was," I say knowing that no one except him ever gave a fuck about me. I was a sidekick. More of a literal kick in someone's side. A pain to remember for awhile but one to heal over time.

"Did youknow I want to bea musician real bad? But Ican't sing good enough."

"What do you mean?"

"Iplay the ukulele and and I wantto sing for peoplebut people hate myvoice."

"Sing for me then."

"I can'tI'm drunk. I'mreally drunk. Wheenyou're drunk you can't singstraight."

"Or see straight."

"Ican see you."

"That's comforting."

And the rabbit laughs with this high pitch bounce. I've heard him laugh before and he must only laugh like this when he's wasted.

"You'regreat man. I'm gonnasaythis becauseI'm drunk, but you're agoodfriend Tails, you'rethe best one I've ever had."

"We've only known each other for two weeks."

"And you'reso nice. And cynicaltoo likememan! Ilove itwhen people become assholes you know? It makes themseem more real and shit. Morerelaaa...more relatable."

"Then I must be the most relative Mobian around."

"Thankyou for beingso laidback man. I'm gladyou don't careso much."

"It comes easy when you're me."

"I'msorry."

"Don't be. You know how it was. Fighting Robotnik and Mobians dying all over the place. The death camps and stuff. You see stuff like that and you just don't care. You can't ever care enough again. You somehow learn how to unlearn. You defect to small amounts of emotion. And then everything comes in little waves of happiness and tsunamis of everything else. I can't even remember the last time I was really ever happy..."

And I stop with my secret. It's like the back of my mind had a surprise for me. I can't remember the last time I wanted to be with anyone else but myself and I'm a horrible person, I'm such a horrible person.

"Youshould bea writer. That'sbeautiful!" he says looking me, his eyes with tears, then he shakes his head and rubs his forehead fast, central, and circular with the knuckle of his pointer finger. "Oh man." he says again without breath, almost without sound.

Now I want to cry because I'm not drunk enough to appreciate what he's saying. He's super drunk now and I'm pretty sure he's like me in that you instantly hate getting really drunk because you know how much the next day is going to hurt. The poor bastard. I should care about this. I should care about his words but I don't even know if he believes them. Drinking makes you almost believe.

"I think you've had a little too much Darren."

"Iknow. Fuck. Fuck. fuck. I'm outtahere, I'll go to bedsir."

And without another word he hops out and runs dripping wet back to his room or the bathroom. I don't know if he had to throw up or what. I could follow the trail, but I'll probably just hear the echoes later.

My drink's still three fourths full and I just slosh it back with three gulps. The vodka makes me want to throw up in the Jacuzzi. It's gotta be cheap stuff, one hundred proof, which makes me feel like I just drank all the hate in the universe. Of course we all know why we all buy the cheap, powerful liquor, but it's funny Sonic has it. He probably thought all vodka tasted the same, or at least that's what I think. Now whiskey and scotch and wine and beer, they're all adaptable animals, all dynamic enough to change on the price tag. Vodka is a human soul. You can smell vodka, but it never changes.

* * *

I look at Amy crying behind a fishnet veil. A black skirt. A two inch wide belt with a gold buckle. Mascara coloring in the crow's feet around her eyes, the cheekbones and jaw lines. She looks jilted as if some usurper took her lover man. There's a good semicircle forming around the headstone, Helicopters are in the sky drowning the eulogies coming up. Tails give a eulogy. Give a eulogy on everyone else. That's the best soapbox to stand on, someone's dead body.

"Son-was-friend-Hero"

This is all I hear from Mighty the Armadillo. His eyes drooping a ashy, blue dance. Sort of like mine. Except you can tell he's dancing the mambo and I'm still doing a waltz. Mighty is worse than the sidekick, he's the rival friend. Not the rival in the classic sense. The new day sense where everybody is everybody's buddy. Knuckles fucking did it too. Knuckles used to be an asshole and would've had spit at Sonic's funeral a decade ago. He kicked my ass once. Now he's here paying respects. It's not even payment, it's charity respect, respect without getting any back.

The sniffling now from Amy is getting loud enough to hear under the helicopter blades. She could be acting but the crying is bringing tears to my eyes too. A little wetness to see her this way, to see anybody this way. It makes the little human inside my fox. Thought about going to the therapist about my own internal death, how Miles starved himself from love, but here it is, the hunger pains with Amy's sobs. But the sobs aren't even sobbing anymore, Amy's choking on herself with those loud yelps from balling too much. The noise similar to my own days. I follow suit and the glove I'm wearing covers my own face. And I realize it's not because of Sonic but because of Amy. She's inconsolable and the feeling is mutual.

There has to be a news camera on my face. A tabloid. A television clip. It'll say Miles "Tails" Prower-loser-friend-weak. It's all because my waving eyes can still see Knuckles over there stony and stoic. Unmovable. The absence of character. It's what I want right now and noodle arms caress my back. Up and down up and down with a rub. Little Tails it's okay baby. Don't cry for someone who still wanted to hang out with you and respected your opinion. Don't cry for him. Be a man and forget him.

The hands belong to Ray the flying squirrel. Yeah. I thought it was Amy. She's always hugging people.

But Ray's green eyes are crying too and I don't know why everyone is crying or sad and where's my strike down God? Why am I only sad for the living? The artificial?

Why can't one tear touch the ground for the dead I knew and know?

* * *

Ray is the sidekick to Mighty the Armadillo. Mighty does all the middle level jobs Sonic never got to. Like stopping robberies and crime, small time criminals and rackets. Yet people still know Mighty the Armadillo but if you ask anyone who Ray is, you'll get a "huh? who?" It makes me contemplate if he is as bad as I am, but I don't like meeting new people because they very rarely turn into what you expect. And Ray will just be another version of myself and I don't even like myself much.

* * *

Darren is currently cutting a carrot into quarter sized bits. The blender is near his right hand and he probably is drinking another one of those carrot shakes again. It sounds disgusting but it's actually a sweet and sour mix, more sweet though which makes it easier to have. He's pretty good with the butcher knife and the paranoia wants to tell me that he'll kill me in my sleep, and the suicidal tendency tells me he should, but I know I wouldn't be able to take being murdered quietly. I'd try to scream for help on this island paradise.

"Are you making breakfast? It's after two."

"This is the cheapest hangover cure I could find."

"Oh so you're hungover?"

"Pretty badly. I don't remember a damn thing I said last night. I know it was about Sonic. Sorry if I said anything offensive."

"You didn't."

"Do you need anything before I have a horrible day and grunt and give you dirty looks at every task you give me?"

"Just go to bed man. I can look after myself."

"Ok. Just call my cell phone if you want me. I'll try to answer it. Or yell into the intercom."

"Yeah. See you later."

* * *

I look at the headstone. I look at the dates. There was a good time before I ever knew him. At least seven or eight years. He had so much of a life before I did. He was blowing up robots before I could complete a thought. And that's something to quiver over. The epitaph says "Keep running and never look back." It's funny for a suicide victim to complete one of his better quotes a little too metaphorically. If suicide is actually running. Hard to say.

I remember when he said it. A press conference after defeating another Robotnik contraption. A reporter had simply asked him "How do you live on with the pressure of being a world renowned hero?" He replied with innocence.

And the pressure now, the pressure has finally ceased. Something in Sonic couldn't go on and looking at this grave makes me think I should've gone with him to that race track.

He called me and I didn't deliver as his little brother, his best friend in the world, his right hand, and here I am to live with the mistake. It makes me think killing yourself is a team effort, a mistake on multiple levels, but there's still the thought of guilt, survivor's guilt.

Sonic might've killed himself a week later but I could've kept him alive a little longer. And people don't want to admit you need friends in this world, but you do and maybe that's something I need to learn. That I wasn't any better. I wasn't worth the complaints I spewed to anyone who would listen and they agreed with me. Everyone agreed and left me to decay within my own thoughts. Or they didn't agree, they only ignored me and is that better?

I keep looking at Sonic and all the advantages I had from him. He gave me a life. I would starved out on the streets a long time ago if wasn't for him. And I came up short as a friend.

The bottle in my right hand is full of vodka. I got this crazy idea that I could get drunk enough to pass out right on Sonic's grave crying my eyes out like some cinematic closure to what happened, but I just can't do it. It wouldn't be worth it.

People say you can't change and maybe you can't, but at least you can say you tried. You tried to be a good person somewhere down the line. You were decent.

I think that's enough for this world.


	2. Vernon, Ray, Mighty, Darren

VERNON

I'm a lawyer who keeps a bottle of married malt whiskey in my right side bottom desk drawer. Every day or two I take three swigs at ten am. One of my biggest clients was Sonic the Hedgehog. The formal prick who was not really a prick but he's richer than me, so therefore he becomes a prick by the default. But god damn is it funny to give all his shit to that head case Tails Prower. The little kid is so caught up in his own world. I could tell when he signed the papers. The glaze in the eyes. See it's all about how a person appears. Walk into my office and within five seconds I can tell who you are. Tails is an insecure, Oedipus complex, boy. The weak people all love their fathers and want to fuck them. Tough fact but I've defended them before. Incest trial, insert Hamlet, except Hamlet's Dad has been ghost fucking his son for years. I'd like to meet Tails' father. He's probably a big, big man, who likes auto cars and fucking. Worse he loves women so much he has to tell everyone. I want to rub my face in titties he'll say, prideful while smoking a cigar on the weekends.

Most men are this way. Hell, I get it. But I have to defend their drunk assholes on those wooden benches. Sorry judge he only punched her because she was yelling and he had an inner ear infection, he's an alright citizen of the Mobian planet! Believe me, 'cause the prosecutor just wants to put a good man in jail. To err is divine right? Am I right?

See, I know I'm wrong. Wrong to defend anyone who measures anywhere on the scale of justice. Everyone fucks up sure, but the select people make me just write off any good person, because all we are, are little angles, angles of the shapes we want to be. What angle is promoting you to kill people for a cause? It's okay I'll defend you for the zeroes and commas in my law firm and in my paycheck. It's a duty. It's a service.

It doesn't change a thing though. I'm just a piper for the piping, like that twelve day Christmas song. I bring the rats to the river but don't let them drown just yet.

* * *

RAY

* * *

I hugged Tails at the funeral and I keep waiting for some sort of phone call. He's got a great ass and a sad disposition, which is a good combo, but I know he's never going to call me. I saw him weeping and balling at Sonic's death. The lonely bastard has got nothing to his name, just a dead best friend and a new experience. And that's hard to deal with. It'd be like if Mighty died. Mighty's been like a brotherly father, or a fatherly brother, whichever rises to the surface. Tails could care less about Mighty even though I cared about Sonic.

Sonic's heroism was different for me. He wasn't just the news story. A long time ago back when he was younger he saved me from a Mobian Death Camp. Showing up at the funeral was the least I could do, considering I would've been ashes without his...interference. I never got to know him the way I wanted to. He could've been another Mighty or something or at the least a bi-weekly drinking buddy.

It's hard to personify him especially considering he's a Mobian and we're only half human. He was a living legend. It's not very often you see saviors walking around ready to talk to you. Saviors are supposed to die long before the analysis, the classes, and history books. Yet Sonic had papers on him published in academia. Doctors of all backgrounds telling people how Sonic was the perfect signifier for a lost generation of heroes. And he sure was. Mighty's the one who's a officer, saving the daily lives, while Sonic did yearly, world saving work. I merely was and still am, Mighty's administrative assistant, in battle or regarding his career. He makes great money because of all the leg work he's done the past decade. All I do is organize his case files and make his life a little bit easier for all the people he has to deal with, which sounds like it sucks, but the pay is decent and Mighty doesn't have much to do. Just a bulletin board and the occasional errand. For twenty eight thousand Mobiums, it's not a bad working year for me.

* * *

Mighty walks in out of uniform. I start shuffling papers to pretend like I had something important to do. Which like normal, I didn't have anything to manage or anyone to call. I'm more of a fancy receptionist, but Mighty liked me enough to get me out of the detective days, the Chaotix. Let just say, I did something right because he disavowed everyone else from the Robotnik era, including Sonic.

"Ray we're going to get a drink."

"Sure, but I'm not off your schedule until six."

The armadillo laughs because I think he forgot I'm his assistant or something. Even when Mighty has nothing for me, I have to sit behind this desk and look pretty and smile for the other cops who come through here.

"I'll call it 'investigative assistance'. Let's head back to my place."

"You know when you say you're going to go for a drink, I picture a bar."

"Yeah, but we both know I hate bars for all those people schmoozing around. I deal with people enough on a daily basis, why would I want to see more of them? Plus, it's better if I stay out of bars for protection's sake."

"Let me just get my coat and we'll go."

Next thing you know there's rainy windshields and Mighty's tail lights leading to his house near the coastal bend of Station Square. His car's a four door and red. It's like following a motoring radar blip through the rain.

I get out of my car and see Mighty scampering into his house. It's been a long time since it's rained and I forgot how much Mighty hates precipitation. Don't ask me why though, he's the one with a shell.

His head leans out of his front door.

"Ray move your ass up here before you get any more rain on the floor! Or do I have to hire you as my fucking maid?"

Wandering forward, listening for thunder, I watch him grind a cigarette into dust. The tobacco just floats until it stains the ground, the wrapper now a thick and crinkled French fry. The water falls off my trench coat. It's the one I got last year due to the colder weather. I head up the trio of steps onto his front porch. My shoe steps right onto the cigarette's remains. Part of me knows to avoid stepping into or onto things, but the challenge is getting myself to do it. Mighty's already inside and he doesn't see the blemish I just left on his carpet right upon walking in. I think everything leaves a stain, even my breath, but don't tell the armadillo that. He'll put me in an early grave. Mighty loves things to be clean when it involves him. Of course this doesn't excuse his social skills. The guy cusses up not a storm, but a mudslide of curses.

* * *

For an armadillo Mighty's got a big house around four thousand square feet or so. His job isn't cushy, but couch we're sitting on definitely is. His head's staring back upward into the triangular ceiling above us. It's made to be antiquated with wooden beams.

"Do you want a cigarette? I'll make you a drink."

"You know I don't smoke and yet you ask me every time I'm here."

"It's courtesy. That's all it fucking is."

"I thought you were trying to quit."

"I am. You saw me crush that pack at the door."

"Yeah, but I know you buy a hell of lot more than one pack at a time."

"So you've been watching me?"

"More like we went to the convenience store and you bought two cartons."

"Oh." he pauses with stupidity. He hates it when I catch him in little traps of the mind, but now he's staring with a much sterner look. His desk clock can be heard ticking in the den and Mighty's now had about ten seconds to say something and this kind of hesitation means we're about to talk seriously and if you knew Mighty, he's not going to talk about finances.

"We need to talk about Sonic. I know you knew him during the B5 Camp breakout."

"'Know' is not really the right word. He saved my life and my ass and I ran from that place to Knothole. You did too We were both there."

"Okay, well that's beside the point here. The thing is, the thing is that me and him were best friends when we were kids. And-"

"Yeah. Green Hill. You've mentioned it."

Mighty again stops as if words can't find the moment.

"I don't know how he could do it Ray. How could he do it?"

"I don't know. It's an interesting question to answer. We'd have to do research on lot of people and their demises to get a glance of it. We don't know anything about his life."

"But Sonic had everything."

"Well he never got married."

"That's not a good reason." Mighty scoffs. "You know Sonic wasn't the marrying kind any more than I am."

"But you're the one who didn't talk to him. How do you know?"

Mighty gets up and heads to his wooden bar in the corner of the room. He keeps shaking his head like he knew something I didn't. And he probably does. Mighty and Sonic were friends for at least seven or eight years, at least until thirteen or fourteen years old.

He starts mixing gin and tonic, while he grabs a small bottle cola and mixes it with vodka for me. For some reason I always love the drinks that refined people hate. It's a weird status quo. Mighty's hands are quick with the drinks and he comes rushing back to me before the glass can even condensate.

The armadillo lights a cigarette to actually smoke this time and he takes long drag just so he can blow onion rings out of his mouth. Puff. Puff. Puff. And the popping cigar sound he makes with the cigarette around his mouth. I really hate that sound and it makes me want to hurt people when I hear it, but it's Mighty and I can't really hate him for his vices than he can hate me for mine.

"Ray, prepare yourself for a fucking story. I don't really want to tell it, but it's going to help us oversimplify this little Sonic suicide. I think if you knew what I knew it'd be a little more clear."

* * *

And the story rises and falls. And I get the actions in it, but I don't really want to understand it more than I have to. It's like reading the overlander Bible. You get some passages that could make sense and then there's the ones that are so immoral you laugh at them wondering how anyone can believe them and yet here's one right here. Mighty gave me a puzzler.

* * *

MIGHTY

* * *

I get the news a lot because I'm always there to see it live. I interview with the television station cameramen a lot about how I am doing my best to protect the streets. My job consists mainly of homicidal maniacs who kill inner city adults because they were inner city kids. And it's funny because that's one circle of life that is like a bullet hole in the chest. As if every one's got a chamber to unload on someone else and we all sort of do. Except most of us just complain about our lives on chat rooms or internet sites, or have a drink when we get home from work. Then again if Robotnik was still alive a lot of us would have anger to unload at robot versions of ourselves. Why couldn't we keep them around for that? I'd kick my own ass all the time. Too bad it's all for rehabilitation. We're thinking about making the Robians Mobian again and it makes me think there's going to be some sort of pissed off, post-robotic murder against all us who didn't get roboticized.

Or things could work for the better and they will all be content being robotic. Too bad it's a pipe dream.

I don't even know how I've made it this far. Working double shifts for dead lizards and beaten skunks. The job gets to me. I've probably crushed five packs of cigarettes without even smoking any of them, I get angry for smoking off the job and so I try to stop myself by destroying the source. Still I find myself at 2am entering mini marts to buy a carton.

Sometimes I reach back in my brain to earlier days before cigarettes and bad nights, even while looking at a child shot through the eyeball, speaking to the parents at the station, presenting evidence to court, my mind creeps back to one day in Green Hill. It wouldn't surprise me if the memory isn't in sepia tones or black and white; it feels that old and pure. I try to block out the present and immediate past. I'm talking about the days long before I was a cop. Young and stupid, I was a freedom fighter, and a different armadillo than you would've known.

* * *

The Green Hill Zone is a dirty taxi that used to be a sports car. You go back and look at the putrid brown colors. Green Hill is now autumn and gone. Worn out like a long marriage. And Sonic used to run here and laugh here and so did I. I used to have a life here too. And every time I think about this previous life I see my mother becoming an oil rig, and my dad a switchboard, sure they were more efficient but not real at all.

I wonder why Sonic can't find the money to restore this place. Surely he has enough by now to make a flowerbed out of a dump. Hell it'd be first thing I'd do. I'd bring back my life.

* * *

i look into the red eyes beyond the green hills and palm treed rivers

say hello to your mother Mighty

mom

you're a good boy now

mom what happened to you

i am good now son, give your mother a hug

her metal body shakes and fires sparks those christmas light eyes sorry mom sorry for the long take i can't help looking at you you're so broken how can you be so broken up

don't you love your mommy honey

how can you be my mother

i am the new world son don't you want to be a part of the new world

 _she's not your mother mighty she's was just a robot she was just a robot_

i put my hand out and she puts hers out and we are going to walk away together i love you mom i would never let you down because i love you

the sound of a car crash

how could you do it… you…you fucking asshole

she was going to kill you

i am going to kill you

mighty calm down

fuck calm how can i stay calm

just leave

what

get out of here because it's only going to get worse

you killed her

it was what i had to do

i could care less about your fucking….duty to save people

do you think it's easy to be me right now considering all this

you don't have a soul you are a monster

you are a coward i did what you couldn't do they were going to kill you robotnik knows you've been helping me

they?

…..

i turn to see my father lying like a prop from a movie headless and weightless now never moving again i respected him and he's gone gone where's my father where's the family now it's me now just me just me just me

you fucking bastard

i turn to punch sonic again and again the blood squirts from his nose and the cut on his cheek makes purple with his skin red and blue

sonic pushes me off and kicks me in the face

blurry then the sight of him standing above me

you need to get the hell out of here

you are going to pay for this

you knew what you signed up for mighty

what

…...

i am sorry mighty i just reacted you were gonna die i didn't want you to die

my fucking mom…

what happened to my mom sonic what did you do

i….had to kill her she was robian and she would have killed you

you didn't do this you couldn't of done this to me why did you do this to me when we were friends sonic we're fucking friends and i am an orphan now do you know you made me an orphan

…...

i never want to see you again

then leave green hill before you see what i have to do

what you have to do

everyone's going to die

wait you can't do this

you can't do this sonic

and the red eyes stop flickering hold my mom hold my dad

you are such a good son mighty fighting for freedom like this wait till i tell your father wait till he gets back from business

it was business mighty god damn when are you going to realize that

my mother smiles and mixes some batter the sun is coming in through the tops of the hills and my father's off to work again

i am so proud of you mighty

thanks dad

just be careful with sonic

they didn't know what i was doing

with sonic we were really saving the day literally killing robots

and i didn't know

everyone is going to die because they're not real anymore no one is real anymore and where have they gone tell me that tell me why you think i was so lucky why i had to do it why i have to keep doing it

how do you sleep i want to know how you do that

and the hedgehog walks away

what

the hedgehog runs away

wait a minute

i walk away father in hand as the oil sprinkles the ground it leaves a trail of where i have been

hey sonic do you want to put a bucket of water on their front door

yeah we'll get'em good it's gonna be so funny

and the water soaks them and they yell and scream

and we laugh and laugh and laugh

i watch sonic fall asleep near the lime tree we were talking about something i barely remember

hahahahahahahahaha

you've been hanging out with that hedgehog a lot

yeah mom

what's his name

sonic

oh...that's a nice name

he's pretty cool

what do you guys do all day

the robot explodes as i jump on him and we run through the zone underground and over loops

what are these robots doing here sonic

i don't know they're fun to play with

but they've never been here before

i'll take care of them mighty don't worry about it

don't worry about it

it's not like it's end of the world

it was probably a nerd

hahahaahahahahahaha

yeah some loser making a robot to kill us

it must've been that turtle we egged his house

oh yeahhhh that guy was weird looking

heh he got so mad fucking kids he said

hah fucking kids

the poor fucker

it was just a carton of eggs

i know

damn

is it just me or are there more of these robots

shhhhhh we gotta be quiet

and the man flies in on his bubble laughing and grinning

you kids are going to be my first subjects

fuck you

big words for such a little, minuscule hedgehog

and i watch the man and sonic fight with sonic jumping and dashing until the man explodes and runs away back into the further away hills

who the hell was that sonic

some idiot loser it doesn't matter he's gone now forever probably oh shit man

what is it

you cut your arm

aw fucking hell

your mom's gonna be pissed

what do i do

i'll come with you and we'll just say it was a tree branch or something

that could work

it will your mom thinks i'm great

 _and i saw everyone i ever met again_

mighty you have to remember that i saved your life you would've have died

what's the point in life sonic you took my life away

it was only your life to begin with you are just a subset of my life a sidekick just like tails except tails knows his place and doesn't fault me for doing my job

how can you say that

you are afraid to admit your problems

everything is...where do i start where do i go

leave the game mighty i can tell by the look of your eyes that it's killing you the war is killing you don't you know you can give this all up

i am going to kill robotnik and then i am going to kill you one day

we both know you're not strong enough to kill me

the light clicks on and off keep pulling the switch the light comes on the light goes out

how have you been

…...

mighty i never hated you

i learned my place sonic you don't have worry about me anymore i am a good boy

mom dad

you are a good boy mighty

i let you die

i could've restored you mom i could have brought you back

nothing ever comes back mighty nothing is ever the same every second that passes in the day changes us either for the better or the worse but when are you going to stop the past when is your life going to be about you instead of me all you've done is hate me

shut up you don't know what it's like

my father was the first ever roboticized mobian my mother was the second

…...

do you think i wanted to kill your parents

…...

you never asked me sonic

they weren't alive

she said she loved me

you were in shock

how do you know that do i look sick to you

sonic running through the hills faster and faster a blue line in the distance

mom dad i'm sorry i haven't been around to see you it's been a long time

sonic do you think we'll be friends like thirty years from now

sure man why not why'd you ask

i don't know it's just weird to think of us old

man we'll be around we won't fall outta touch

sonic died today mighty did you know i can't believe it

i did hear about it

are you okay

i'm fine ray

do you want to talk about it

no

are you going to the funeral

how can you ask me something like that

well i just thought considering you guys haven't seen each other in

i'll be there ray don't worry about it

okay

beeeeeeep

mighty i was calling to see if you wanted to go get a drink, it's me sonic of course, call me back when you get the chance bye

i want to take him on the offer but what am i supposed to say

breaking news sonic the hedgehog was found dead this morning inside his garage

 _never got to see him again never got to say_

 _I was sorry_

" _Do you know what that's like?"_

" _How could I?"_

" _It makes me want to take the same course."_

" _If you killed yourself I wouldn't know what to do."_

" _You'd kill yourself."_

" _Well let's not be drastic."_

" _Isn't that the whole point of suicide? That we all spin around in circles until one of us dies and then everyone wants to? It all becomes this unbearable burden. When one person goes the rest will follow, we all care too much and don't want to admit it."_

" _But that never happens."_

" _It does on a mental scale."_

* * *

DARREN

* * *

F major chord, c major chord, e7 minor, g major, repeat.

These are the only chords I learned on the ukulele so far and I know my dreams are made of paper. My voice is a weak and breathy version of a good singer. The louder I sing the more droned I sound. I'm kidding myself on artistry. I want to be respected bad but I know I'll never have the resolve to keep it going. Sonic said I sounded like a boy band which can be a good thing, but there's no seriousness in a boy band, no message. Just a forgettable voice that can't move people, only brush by them, and that's my voice, a broken jazzy breeze.

I think I'll have another drink and move on before my mind gets too depressed on the thought that I'm absolutely meaningless to everyone except myself.

I think it's suburbia.

The thing that's holding me back from being real, is my childhood. I try to think back to my teenager days of when I was supposed to be fucking, partying, and playing guitar, but here I am unaffected. I did none of those things. The people I knew weren't really people. Every woman and man ,boy and girl, stereotyping themselves into postfeminists, businessmen, athletes, and hipsters.

My adolescence was video games and going over to other's houses to play video games.

It all feels primitive now and wasted. Graduating college helped dull the primal instincts my animal self wanted to engage in, but it just left me to drinking when I came of age. Intellectualism only putting ice and liquor in the glass and that's my fault too.

I want a liar in me. Say everything is going to be okay, you're meaningful, you're alive, you've got the rest of your life ahead on those ruby streets and emerald streetlights.

But my mouth just grins and finds the liar sneaking around and of course it takes two pangs of thought to remove the optimist.

The whole point of being an artist is to have a horrible past to build from, to work with. You can take your pain and show the world an aspect they never knew, but my life is a bland, complaining, puce like gray. I can't reach into the black of the world and pull out its treasures and stories to share, I can only mold them from the clay I came from and the clay is childish and unrelentingly boring, sloppy, unworthy and on the brink of falling completely apart.

I can only see the beauty and the darkness watching and waiting for my own chance at real pain. And who is anyone to wish that upon themselves?

The air just circles the room, and I should just turn the AC down and down to chill myself to take another high ball and forget.

But the drinker is the bottom of the iceberg that no one's supposed to see, and who wants to see me gasping for air in that endless water continually diving down to see my blood stained grin, my violence, my libido summoning itself upon me and becoming the freak I always knew myself for because I can forgive the lurking, voyeuristic bastard, but no one else can understand me and I can't write a song or poem about this because people will squirm and the success won't come until later and I need it now, I need the clout sometimes and is that too much to ask to be revered? It's all too difficult.

I think it's suburbia and if you're lucky enough to live there great. But don't be so disappointed when you're twenty six and nothing in your life is worth remembering. Just ask yourself why you were so lucky to survive and be content while the rest of the world became metal and died?


End file.
